


Painter's Muse

by sixty_seventh_sparrow



Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Fluff, I dont know what else to tag this with, M/M, its 1 am and i forgot how tags work im going feral, thats it its just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixty_seventh_sparrow/pseuds/sixty_seventh_sparrow
Summary: While going out for tea with Britain, France rediscovers his muse.
Relationships: France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Painter's Muse

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first thing ive ever uploaded to ao3 (flushed emoji) lets see if i butcher it or not  
> its just mediocre fluff. if i had any more patience i probably would have tried making it better, because theres a lot of details and stuff im not 100% happy with, but. yknow  
> the extent of my french knowledge comes from fanfictions and memes, so the french is probably terrible. if you know french and you decide to read this im very sorry

Blue and orange streaked across the canvas. With a swipe of the brush, yellow joined the dance, the colors tangling together in a swirl.

The sound of an opening door distracted France from his paint. He turned around and saw Britain walking in. France smiled. "Bonjour, cherie."

"Hello to you too, France," Britain walked up behind France, peering over his shoulder at the canvas. "What's this?"

"A landscape." He flicked his brush at the canvas again, adding another stroke of yellow. "It's very... abstract now, because I'm unsure what direction I want to take it in."

Britain hummed, nodding along (even though france knew he was clueless about painting). "It looks interesting so far, I think." He said, much too politely, indicating to France that he thought it was strange but wanted to be nice. France snorted. "You don't have to spare my feelings if you don't like it, you know." Britain raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I may not understand it, but that's just because I'm uncultured. Doesn't mean it isn't good."

"Oh? The great and dignified United Kingdom admits he's uncultured? My, what a turn of events!"

"Oh, shut it, France." Britain gave a half-hearted swat at France who dodged it with a laugh. "I was gonna ask you out for tea, but if you're gonna be like that then I might just go by myself now." France perked up at that. "That sounds great right now! Though." France looked back at his painting. Britain seemed to read his mind, and scoffed. "Forget the bloody painting. It won't disappear if you leave it. Besides, you've been in here for hours, come on."

France couldn't argue with that (in fact, he hadn't even realized it had been hours. time flew, didn't it?), so he walked out of the room with Britain.

...

France and Britain sat on a bench at the edge of the city. Afternoon was soon to hit, and there were few people around. He and Britain had decided to come out here to get some fresh air and admire the view.

"Y'know, I don't blame you for being such an artist after seeing all these nice views. My land barely has anything this pretty.

"Well, when you're responsible for so many famous painters in history, you're bound to pick up a little artistry. But don't talk down your land, Britain, it's fine. What about that old flower shop? That was gorgeous."

"Okay, other than that there isn't anything to look at. Have you seen the Thames?"

France gave a snort of surprise. He had, in fact, seen the Thames. It was astoundingly horrid.

"Exactly. Besides, that flower shop's man-made. You've got natural beauty, you don't need the prettied-up buildings."

"Are you sure you're still talking about the landscape?" France teased. Britain's face reddened when he realized what France meant, and he looked away, fiddling with his lapel. "M. Maybe."

France chuckled at Britain's embarrassment, but decided to spare him this time, and he turned his attention back to the landscape. The sun was growing ever closer to the horizon, and as it did, the sky was rapidly turning gold. Maybe Britain had been right. The view was gorgeous.

He looked back at Britain. He was watching the horizon too, cast in the yellow glow from the sky. His gray eyes captured the dying sun, sparkling with gold. The lighting made him appear soft and innocent, rather than the weathered and battered country France knew he was. The centuries of stress just wasn't evident. Just looking at him made France feel warm. He smiled. Even if Britain's land wasn't naturally pretty, the country himself was absolutely gorgeous.

Britain seemed to feel France's gaze on him, and he looked over. The countries' eyes met, and Britain seemed taken aback by France watching him, or maybe the expression he wore, because France was certain he must look like a lovestruck fool.

France reached towards Britain, brushing a stray curl of hair back into its place, before continuing the motion and resting his hand on Britain's face. He cupped his cheek, stroking a thumb gently across it, and Britain's eyes nearly fluttered closed. (he seemed to be fighting the urge to lean into france's hand. in their time spent together, france had come to find out that britain was fantastically touch-starved, because at every slight physical affection france gave him, he just melted. it was utterly endearing.)

France was overcome with adoration, and so he leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss against Britain's mouth. Britain gave a meek little smile in response, placing a hand over France's hand on his face.

"Je t'aime, Bretange."

"I love you too, France."

They stayed like that a moment longer, before France removed his hand from Britain's face to tangle it with Britain's hand. He stood from the bench rather quickly, and Britain gave him a confused (and disappointed, though france knew the other country would never admit it) look.

"We should get home." France answered the question in Britain's eyes.

"Wait, why?"

France gave a soft, yet still infuriatingly conniving smile. "I just got inspiration for my painting."

Britain rolled his eyes, but his dumb little smile betrayed him. He stood from the bench, giving France a brief peck on the cheek as he still held onto his hand.

"Alright then, let's go home."


End file.
